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This time of the year, i almost feel guilty for being melancholic. It is as if my solemn duty to feel happy. Feel happy about the chill in the air, the leaves that lie perched on delicate branches waiting for the favourable winds to let go, about the late dawns and early dusks, about the year that has been and that has yet to come, and of the memories of those crimson borders.

All about the days when i used to be woken up by mum’s pats and not ringtones, when every morning and afternoon and evening of those five days meant shirts and pants smelling of newness, when you could run up and down buslting streets with a gun in hand thinking the world is a happy place, when ignorance was blissfully protected by those crimson borders.

Far far away, now crimson is too loud and borders redudant! Mornings are dull and newness soon to be old. I look back and wonder if i have really walked that much…

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